


Missing Moments

by bex_xo



Series: Stages of Us [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Companion Piece, Cousin Incest, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, I suck at tags sorry!, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Petyr says some not nice things about Sansa, R plus L equals J, Someone dies, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, borrows from both the books and the show, living dangerously not beta'd, there is some name calling, whoever could that be?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bex_xo/pseuds/bex_xo
Summary: *A non-linear companion piece to Stages, told from Sansa's POV.Jon presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, before pulling back just enough to be able to look into her eyes.“I won’t let him touch you. I won’t let that bastard near you Sansa. He so much as steps a toe out of line while here, I’ll kill him without a second thought. Petyr Baelish is done causing you pain, he no longer has any control over you, he’s not taking you away from Winterfell, do you understand?” His words are as fierce as they are comforting.Never once has Sansa not believed in any of Jon’s promises, and she’s not about to start now.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AliceInNeverNeverLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInNeverNeverLand/gifts).



> So when I saw that day one of jonxsansafanfiction's Valentines challenge was First Kiss, I knew exactly what I was going to write. Then I realized that just writing their first kiss on the Stages 'verse wasn't going to be enough, that I needed to write all the stuff that lead up to it. That's how I ended up writing 8k+ words for this. I have lots of other tidbits I'd like to add to this in the future, some happen before this moment in time, other's after. 
> 
> *This chapter takes place after chapter three (Cousins) of Stages, and sometime before chapter four (Lovers). 
> 
> **Gifted to my darling Alice of Alonso (goodqueenalys on tumblr) for always supporting Stages and my Jon x Sansa fangirling habits!
> 
> ***Petyr says some really gross things to Jon and Sansa, and calls Sansa some terrible things. No worse than canon, but just wanting to give ya'll a heads up.

“Enter.” Sansa calls when she hears the knock on the door of her solar.  
  
Without even looking up, she knows its Podrick Payne, just from the shuffling of feet and the pause between the closing of the door and the clearing of his throat.  
  
“What is it Podrick?” Sansa asks, looking up from the letter she’s re-reading from Lord Manderly in White Harbor.  
  
“Our scouts spotted riders Lady Stark, nearly two hours ride away. About 200 men on horses, carrying the banners of House Arryn, House Royce, House Waynwood and House Redfort…”  
  
Standing to her feet, Sansa smooths down the front of her simple grey wool gown and pulls the heavy fur lined cloak from the back of her chair over her shoulders.  
  
“I assume they are coming up the Kingsroad, correct?”  
  
The squire gives a quick nod, and his cheeks start to flare red.  
  
“Is there something more Podrick?” She feels compelled to ask, knowing what his answer is going to be, anxiety growing in the pit of stomach as she starts walking to the door.  
  
“There was also a single banner carrying the standard of Petyr Baelish.”  
  
The name stopped Sansa in her tracks, her hand paused midway to her hair that she was subconsciously smoothing down. Fear she hadn’t felt in years, not since Jon had flown away from Winterfell on the back of Rhaegal to fight the living dead, starts coursing through her veins like ice on the White Knife.  
  
“Lady Sansa, are you alright?” Podrick’s voice full of concern as he gently places a warm hand on her shoulder.

It’s enough to snap her out of the trance she’s in. She should have expected this moons ago, when the white raven came and signaled the end of Winter.  
  
“Yes Podrick, thank you for asking. Have Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime been alerted of our impending guests?”  
  
“They have. Ser Jaime is prepared to arrest Lord Baelish on sight if needed.”  
  
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Arresting Petyr without cause will only start a fight. We will treat our unexpected guests with the respect that is due to their station. Have the castellan prepare rooms for the Lords and tell the kitchen to start prepping for a welcome feast.”  
  
“Yes my lady.” There is a moments pause before he adds, “Should we gather the household to meet them when they arrive?”  
  
“Rickon needs to be found and put in his rooms. Let it be known that Lord Baelish should not, under any circumstances, be made aware that Rickon is here. Undoubtedly he will find out, but I’d prefer that it comes directly from me. Please, Podrick, this is important.”  
  
The squire nods once and exits the room. Sansa takes a deep breath in, clearing her head before leaving her solar and heading towards the Godswoods.  
  
\---------  
  
Sansa finds him under the heart tree, the man who once was a brother, now a cousin and a king. Jon is the spitting image of her father, sitting under the canopy of red leaves, with Longclaw in his lap.  
  
She can hear the faint whispers, the ones that come from poor Bran, all alone somewhere north of the wall, protecting them all, but only just. His words are not for her today, but for Jon, and so she waits just on the other side of the steaming hot spring. Jon looks angry, if only slightly, and seems to be speaking harshly at the face carved into the Weirwood.  
  
She would laugh at the absurdity of it all, if she hadn’t done the same thing herself in the past. Bran, with all his infinite wisdom, at times is nothing more than a stubborn young man, and does not take being told no well. He may foresee their futures, but Sansa often reminds him that he must allow them to do things in their own time.  
  
Jon looks over from the red-sapped face, noticing her waiting to enter past the treeline before turning back to the Weirwood. He murmurs something under his breathe, laying his hand upon the trunk and resting his forehead on the wood briefly before standing up from where he sits. Sansa hears the leaves rustle, though there is no wind, and feels the power in the air dissipates as Brans consciousness retreats from Winterfell and back to his cave.  
  
“You’re brother sends his love.” Jon says, solemn as ever as he seethes Longclaw back into his scabbard.  
  
Sansa manages a weak smile, keeping her hands clasped in front of her. Warning Jon of their impending guests is not something she really want’s to be doing, but having the king go into a blind range upon seeing Petyr Baelish, one of his sworn lords, and killing him in the courtyard is much worse an idea.  
  
“Riders were spotted down the Kingsroad. Roughly two hundred of them.”  
  
Jon sighs, running a hand through the wild mass of black curls he allows to hang loose while in Winterfell. He once told her it made him feel less like the King, wearing his hair this way, in the walls of his childhood home, and more like he belonged here.  
  
“You weren’t expecting any visitors were you? Not until Rickon is ready to play the little lordling, which will be soon between Maester Clement and Lady Shireen is what you’ve been saying.”  
  
“We received no ravens. That’s not to say they were never sent, ravens get lost all the time, or killed by larger birds of prey. A welcome feast is being prepared right now.” Sansa explains as she tucks her hand into the crook of Jon’s offered arm, closing the space between them to mere inches. She pretends it’s to keep each other warm, but Spring has officially come to Westeros and while it hasn’t touched Winterfell in the same way it has the rest of the realm, it’s warmer these days than it’s been in years.  
  
“You forgot to mention where these riders are coming from dear cousin. From the Riverlands perhaps, your uncle deciding to come in for a surprise visit?” Jon asks as he leads her through the terrain of the Godswood, over roots and rocks and past steaming hot springs.  
  
“I did not forget. I was just trying to figure out how to tell you.” Her voice is barely above a whisper and she looks determinedly to the ground.  
  
Jon stops dead in his tracks. Sansa continues to stare down at her feet, refusing to meet his eyes, and that’s all the conformation he needs.  
  
“Riders from the Vale? Headed towards Winterfell? It’s been years since Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne and Podrick brought you to me at the Wall, why would the Vale be coming here now?” She can tell he’s angry by the way he spits out the word Vale.  
  
King he may be, fealty Sweetrobin may have sworn the Iron Throne, but there is little love lost between the Vale and Jon. Not after Jon learned all about Sansa’s time under the care of Petyr Baelish, or how Lady Lysa died. Baelish was smart though, made himself useful during the war against the Others and earned himself a pardon from the Throne much to Jon’s disproval.  
  
“Is he with them?” He all but growls, sending a shiver of something she can’t quite identify down her spine.  
  
“The mockingbird standard was seen among the riders.” Sansa mumbles, fiddling with the hem on her cloak and still steadfastly ignoring Jon’s eyes. “He would know I would be here, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and as far as the rest of Westeros is aware, I am the last Stark.”  
  
Gently, as he has always been with her since they reunited, a gloved hand comes under her chin and lifts her eyes towards his. He’s angry, not with her, never with her, not even when she had lied about Rickon was he angry, only ever hurt by her decision, but with the man who had caused her so much pain. Jon pulls her close to him, wrapping both arms around her back, and she feels her heartbeat wildly in her chest while melting into the embrace. Jon presses a lingering kiss to her forehead, before pulling back just enough to be able to look into her eyes.  
  
“I won’t let him touch you. I won’t let that bastard near you Sansa. He so much as steps a toe out of line while here, I’ll kill him without a second thought. Petyr Baelish is done causing you pain, he no longer has any control over you, he’s not taking you away from Winterfell, do you understand?” His words are as fierce as they are comforting.  
  
Never once has Sansa not believed in any of Jon’s promises, and she’s not about to start now.  
  
“I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realizes that the King is in Winterfell.” Sansa says, a small smile playing across her lips as she can clearly imagine the pure look of surprise that will be Petyr’s face.  
  
“Aye. It’ll be a shock for all of them I suppose. Mayhaps I’ll call for Rhaegal and he can be waiting outside the walls as well, yeah?” A mischievous look flashes across Jon’s grey eyes, one that makes Sansa swear she can see Targaryen violet in them as well.  
  
“I think Ghost will do just well. Intimidating enough to keep the Lords in line, friendly enough to not try and eat any of the horses.” Sansa chuckles as the pair makes their way to the gate at the entrance of the godswood.  
  
“It happened one time! Rhaegal was hungry, we had just flown for two days to get here with minimum stops.”  
  
“If you insist Your Grace.”  
  
\------  
  
An hour later Sansa finds herself in a fresh gown, still the grey and white of House Stark, only this time velvet and satin instead of wool. Her handmaid, Bethany, had plaited her hair in the Northern style, leaving most of it lose and falling around her shoulders. If she didn’t know any better, she would have sworn that Jon had been at a loss for words when they both entered the courtyard at the sight of her, but that would be absurd.  
  
“You look handsome dear cousin. Every bit a king dare I say.” She teases as they arrange the household around them.  
  
The blush that raises on Jon’s cheek is almost as red as the three headed dragon embroidered on his vest. Sansa silently thanks the gods that Queen Daenerys has enough sense to never allow him to leave Kingslanding without at least one proper outfit, otherwise Sansa would have to spend most his time in Winterfell making new clothes for him. Black is still his chosen color, his tunic and breeches the familiar color even though he hasn’t been a member of the Watch in years; Sansa supposes that it’s a comfort to him in a situation he has never been truly comfortable in.  
  
Jon fiddles with the direwolf and dragon embalmed crown that sits atop his freshly washed hair, the other thing Queen Dany insists he have with him, even if he refuses to wear it while he’s here.  
  
“Thank you my lady. You’re dress.. um.. it’s nice.” He finishes rather lamely, cheeks still red.  
  
“Just nice?” Sansa teases, smile blooming wide as Jon appears even more tongue tied.  
  
“Beautiful. You’re beautiful Sansa. You have always been beautiful.” He says with a sudden confidence, offering his arm as she stands in stunned silence.  
  
Linking her elbow with his, Jon leads her towards the front of the gathered group of stable hands and household workers ready to settle their guests into the castle.  
  
“I still find it rather rude they never sent a raven. What if you had been away from Winterfell? Or had other guests?” Jon whispers, leaning down towards her ear. His warm breath washes over her neck, leaving a path of gooseflesh in its wake.  
  
“Coming from the man who rode a dragon all the way from Kingslanding when my letters seemed off, a bit hypocritical don’t you think?” She challenges him with a raised eyebrow before turning her head back towards the gate.  
  
“That’s different. We’re family and I’m the king.” Jon tells her with a flick of his eyes towards where his crown rests on his brow.  
  
“How could I ever forget?” She replies, leaning in a bit closer to him as she can now faintly hear the horses in the distance.  
  
Jon lets their arms drop, stepping a bit closer into Sansa’s personal space while lacing his fingers with hers. It’s meant to be a comfort, but she’s gripping onto his hand as if it’s the only thing that is keeping her in this spot instead of fleeing towards her rooms in the castle.  
  
“I got you Sans. Nothing is going to happen while I’m here.” He whispers reassuringly into the crown of her head as the first horses start to pass through the gate.  
  
Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne flank alongside Jon and Sansa, the ever faithful Podrick in the row behind them with Lady Shireen, Ser Davos and Ghost. Rickon waits in his room with Shaggydog, one of the younger stable hands who plays with him keeping him company in his room with his mother who works in the washroom, and the kitchen staff has been given strict orders to serve them dinner when the feast start downstairs. Sansa and Jon went to Rickon’s room together, stressing how important it was that he stayed put in the private family quarters until the Lords of the Vale had left, and he seemed to understand more or less.  
  
The thundering of hooves draws closer to the open gates, it is not loud enough to mask the thundering Sansa hears from her own heart however. Jon rubs soothing circles with his thumb across her knuckles, and she has never been more grateful for his presence at Winterfell than she is in this very moment.  
  
Armed soldiers are the first to come across the threshold of the gates, carrying the banners of their lords. House Arryn, House Royce, House Waynwood, House Redfort and the personal sigil of Lord Petyr Baelish as Podrick had reported a little more than two hours ago.  
  
Sansa holds her breath as the lords follow suit, Bronze Yohn Royce leading the way on his own horse, while two different wheel house trail shortly behind. The young Lord Robert Arryn exists the first wheel house with the assistance of a squire, still placid in looks and obviously sickly, though he is no longer under the destructive care of Petyr, but instead Bronze Yohn acts as regent.  
  
Sansa feels her heart constrict when Petyr exits behind her younger cousin, looking much the same as he did all those years ago, if only with more gray hairs and an obvious sinister quality that her younger self had never noticed.  
  
The lords gather themselves into a group, flanking their young lord as they make their way towards where Sansa and Jon stand with their guards.  
  
Petyr is the first one to notice Jon, his eyes raising briefly in surprise before settling on their joined hands and narrowing briefly, his mouth set in a tight grimace.  
  
Bronze Yohn, the ever observant and most faithful to the crown, takes second notice, dropping down to his knee immediately when he realizes his king is in attendance. The other lords follow suit, someone grabbing an oblivious Sweetrobin as well.  
  
“Your Grace, we weren’t expecting to see you here in Winterfell.” The older man says with his head still bowed, speaking for the group.  
  
“Please stand my lords.” Jon declares in what Sansa has always mentally referred to as his King-voice. It’s slightly deeper and lacks the normal harshness of his Northern accent, refined enough to almost pass as a true Southron born King.  
  
They reluctantly let their hands fall apart, though neither of them make an effort to increase the space between them.  
  
“Yes, King Jon, we would have chosen a different time for our visit if we had been made aware of your presence here.” Petyr says smoothly, if not with an amount of passive aggressiveness in his tone.  
  
“As it appears Lord Baelish, my lady cousin was just as surprised as I was to hear that some of the Lords of the Vale were riding up the Kingsroad. It seems your ravens informing her of your travels to her castle were lost.” Jon challenges, and oh how pleased it makes Sansa to see the flush around Littlefingers collar.  
  
“Ah, yes. It would seem so Your Grace. Our apologizes Lady Sansa, we should have waited for a reply before traveling all this way.” The slimy smile that appears on Petyrs face while speaking to her has Sansa holding back shudders.  
  
In no way does she want him to wrongly assume there is nothing but bad blood between them. She levels him with a stare so icy Ser Jaime once told her it would have even struck fear into Cersei’s emotionless heart.  
  
“It’s Lady Stark, Lord Baelish. You’d be kind to not forget that.” Lady Brienne says, stepping deftly between them with her hand on the pommel of Oathkeeper.  
  
“That I shall do.” Petyr replies with a slight incline of his chin, as if he is sizing up her swornshield.  
  
“We’ve had a meal prepared for you and your men, my dear cousin,” Sansa says turning her attention towards gangly Sweetrobin, whose eyes keep darting around the yard as if he is looking for something. “Chef has also prepared a meal of stew and bread for your soliders, who will be making camp outside of our walls as our barracks have only been repaired enough to house Winterfells household soilders. You do understand, don’t you Sweetrobin?”  
  
The boy-lord looks towards Bronze Yohn for help in the correct answer, who briefly nods his head in reply.  
  
“Yes Lady Stark.” Robert replies absentmindedly, still looking around the yard as if something is missing.  
  
“Will there be firewood available too my lady? Carrying a large amount of it seemed less prudent than packing enough salted meat for our trip.” Bronze Yohn gruffs at her.  
  
“The Wolfswood has plenty of wood for your men to use, as long as they are willing to cut it themselves. I do request they do not cut down any of the weirwood sapplings they may find, and that they stay far away from the clearing marked with the Targaryen banners.” Sansa tells the lords, who send off squires to relay the message to others.  
  
Jon and Sansa lead the small party of nobles into the castle and towards the Great Hall, where Sansa can already smell warm bread and roasted meats. Sweetrobin continues to seem to be in a daze, not focusing on their conversation, eyes wandering the repaired hallway and a look of complete perplexation on his face.  
  
“Is there something you wish to ask cousin?” Sansa asks as they reach the great hall, noticing the disappointed look that appears on the young lords face.  
  
“If King Jon is here, that means his dragon is here. I’ve never seen a real dragon before!” Her younger cousin exclaims eagerly, smile wide across his face and eyes lit up with excitement.  
  
Jon’s laugh is almost loud enough to make Sansa laugh herself, instead she bites the inside of her cheek to keep her composur.  
  
“Not many folk have seen a real dragon I suppose.” Is Jon’s response as he clasps Sweetrobin’s shoulder with enough force to almost knock him over. “Before you leave, I’ll take you out to the woods to meet Rhaegal.”  
  
“Can I fly him?” Sweetrobin asks, his voice breaking with excitement.  
  
Jon laughs again and the lords all break into uneasy chuckles around him.  
  
“I might be the king, but there are even some things I’m not allowed to do. Your lady cousin here would be none too pleased if I let you fly without me, no matter what your house sigil is.”  
  
Sansa catches Petyr rolling his eyes and scowling behind the boisterous lords, silently taking in the whole scene as they are led to the high table. Jon pulls out the Lords seat for Sansa, as he always does when they take their meals in the hall with the rest of Winterfell on his visits, and settles into the seat at her right hand, with Sweetrobin taking the seat to her left. Try as she might, Brienne attempts to block Petyr from sitting in the chair next to Jon, but fails as Lord Royce sits down next to little lord Robert.  
  
Sansa scowls into her wine goblet until she feels Jon’s hand rest momentarily on her knee, giving it a light squeeze of reassurance as the meal starts to be brought out from the kitchen.  
  
About three glasses of wine later, when Sansa has had her fill of roasted venison and vegetables from the glass gardens, and the trays of desserts are being brought out, she finally finds herself starting to be comfortable sharing her table with the man that basically imprisoned her for his own gain all those years ago.  
  
That is until she hears Petyr strike up a conversation with Jon.    
  
“Do fulfill my curiosity Your Grace, but what reason does the King have to be in Winterfell right now? The restoration is practically done, and Lady Stark is doing an excellent job ruling the North. Is it a matter of the crown, or more personal than that?” The mockingbird pin Petyr wears glimmers from the flames of the candles on the table, a smug grin plastered to his face.  
  
Jon declines to take the bait.  
  
“Lady Stark is my cousin. Both the crown and myself have a great deal invested into seeing the North flourish once again my lord. Both Queen Daenerys and myself have made it known to the great houses of our lands that we are more than willing to personally see to the wellbeing of our people, Queen Daenerys spends a good deal of time in both Dorne and the Reach while not in Kingslanding. The Vale wasn’t as affected by the wars as most other regions of Westeros, something you know well.”  
  
The answer is diplomatic at best and accusatory at worst. Sansa can’t help but beam in pride when Petyr looks as if he has walked into a well-used garderobe in Flea Bottom.  
  
“Yes, of course Your Grace.” Petyr replies through gritted teeth, washing it down with a generous gulp of wine.  
  
The conversation seems to meet a natural end there, Jon turning towards Sansa in order to answer Roberts many dragon related questions. Sitting back in her chair, she exhales the breath she has been holding since the moment Petyr walked off that wheelhouse, relief flooding through her. But when she looks over to her right, she can’t help but notice how determinedly Petyr glares at the back of Jon, and she’s acutely aware of that look.  
  
It’s the same one he wore when he pushed her aunt to her death.  
  
It’s the same one he wore when he killed Ser Dontos so he couldn’t accidently reveal where Sansa had been taken after Joffrey’s death.  
  
It’s the same one she had seen many times when he sat on the small council with her father and they had a disagreement about one thing or another.  
  
It was not one that she liked at all.  
  
\---------  
  
Nearly a week into the visit from the Vale lords was the real reason exposed.  
  
Not that it should have come to a surprise to Sansa, it was something she received letters about almost daily, and that in question was offers of marriage proposals.  
  
The first offer was to wed Lord Robert when he came of age, a scheme Petyr had longed planned for her while she paraded as his bastard daughter, gaining her the rights to the both the North and the Vale, and at the time potentially the Riverlands, making Sansa one of the single most powerful players in the game.  
  
Robert was not a suitable future husband. Too easily manipulated by those around him, especially the one she had ran from, and sickly still. Any future marriage needed to be with a man she knew would live to raise a family with, and Robert was not that man.  
  
“Absolutely not. I must stay here in Winterfell, I can’t marry the lord of a different great house and be able to rule over my own people at the same time.” Is how she brushes off that particular bit of nonsense when Lord Royce attempts to bring it up.  
  
The next offer was that of Harry Harrdyn, Alayne’s once betrothed and someone Sansa would rather not lay eyes on again. Harry had never known Sansa as herself, only as Petyrs bastard daughter, and the brief amount of time they spent together at the Gates of the Moon were fraught with lies and contention.  
  
“Our first engagement was under false pretenses my lords. Harry and I already have a history that is none too pleasant, as some of you would remember. My quarrel with Lord Baelish, which lead to my escape with Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne and Podrick, may be something of the past, but my time spent under his protection is not one I am soon to forget.”    
  
Lord Royce at least had the decency to look ashamed for bringing the proposal up.  
  
By the time her guests had been in the castle for a week, Sansa was acutely aware that the presence of Rickon was getting ever harder to hide. The family wing was closed off to anyone not given express permission from Sansa herself, but Brienne had reported Petyr snooping around the hall the led to the family rooms more than once.  
  
“Jon, we must tell them, before someone finds out and uses it against me.” Sansa says one night while sharing a pitcher of wine in her solar, Jon sitting on the ground in front of her reading a letter from Tyrion while she works on sewing she has been neglecting.  
  
Jon just sighs from his place on the floor.  
  
“I’ve been thinking that I will write a letter out to all of the great houses, explaining when Rickon was brought back to Winterfell and why I decided to keep it a secret for so long. Of course I will say that you and Queen Daenerys have been aware, and that’s why you have been spending so much time in the North these past few moons. I’m sure all of Westeros knows your whereabouts by now since Petyr is here, no need to fuel petty gossip as well.”  
  
“Are you really that worried about the whispers the kitchen girls share while baking bread Sans?” Jon inquires, head tilted angled and back, practically in her lap. The intimacy of their positions feel a lot less inappropriate than it should.  
  
“What do you mean?” She asks, carefully setting down the piece she has been half working on this last hour. It is a ruin anyway, dropped stitches and knotted thread, her mind not being able to focus on what’s in her hands because of who is at her feet.  
  
“You make it sound like your top priority is to explain away my presence here. Rickon is my cousin, regardless of my being king. His return home is enough of an explanation as to why I am here. Smallfolk are going to gossip, you know as well as I, and we’ve hardly given them anything to be scandalized by. What was it your mother used to say?”  
  
“Words are wind.” Sansa replies automatically, saying a silent prayer to the old gods and the new for her mother’s soul.  
  
“Aye. Words are wind. Let the smallfolk gossip about the king and his lady cousin, it doesn’t mean anything.” Jon tells her, nudging her leg with his shoulder, causing her to break into a blush as red as her hair.  
  
“No. You’re right. I’m just worried is all, after so long under Petyr’s thumb it feels as if I’m being pulled back in with him here.”  
  
Jon turns fully towards her then, grabbing her by the hand with a sense of urgency.  
  
“That bastard hasn’t tried anything, has he?”  
  
Sansa would laugh if the look on Jon’s face wasn’t so serious.  
  
“No. No of course not. Lady Brienne has been by my side since the moment Petyr stepped foot into Winterfell. If not her, Ser Jaime, or yourself, even Ghost has been a constant companion. He just… I just know how he works Jon. I can’t shake the feeling that he is planning something.”  
  
“Maybe it’s time the Lady of Winterfell ask the Lords of the Vale to be leaving?”  
  
“They haven’t even been here a fortnight Jon. Now that they know I am not accepting any marriage proposals, I doubt they will desire to stay here much longer, but it’s a long ride North to come all this way and be sent back home almost immediately.” She says to their still clasped hands instead of to his face, where she knows for certain his grey eyes would be able to will her to do just about anything.  
  
“Another fortnight then. I will need to be leaving again about that time, and I’m not comfortable with Baelish being here when I’m not.”  
  
“Jon.” She chastises him, for he knows full well that she is well protected within the walls of her own home.  
  
“What can I say, I am protective over what’s important to me. Who is important to me. You, Sans, are the most important to me, and the thought of leaving you here without him being long gone does not settle easily with me.” Jon whispers against the skin of her knuckles, where he places a soft kiss.  
  
Her heart flips in her chest and she knows she is scarlet from head to toe, but she cares little of what it might imply to him. All she knows is whatever this is that is suddenly between them, is something she hopes to explore given the chance.  
  
\----------  
  
A fortnight passes and with it Sansa sends an official letter to all the great houses of Westeros, and to all the lords of the North. The Vale lords are among the first to show their support to the last male heir of Eddard Stark, with letters from other lords arriving daily.  
  
Sansa makes it known that her position is still in Winterfell as Lady Stark until Rickon is of age to rule on his own.  
  
Jon makes it known that even then they do not know if Rickon will be fully able by the time he reaches his majority and that the Iron Throne has taken a special interest in seeing that happen.  
  
They spend more time together publicly now, usually with Rickon in tow, but together none the less. The Lords of the Vale are due to leave in two days time, Jon leaving three days after them to spend some much needed time in Kingslanding, where he has been ignoring the past moons turn. He will be back in six weeks, in time to celebrate Sansa’s nameday and to make an important visit to what remains of the Watch.  
  
Their time together seems all that much more important since the night they talked in her solar. Something has changed in their dynamic, something that has been lying dormant between them since Jon found out Rickon was home and they shared a bed after sharing their grief.  
  
Petyr seems to seethe in anger every time he happens upon them, something that does not go amiss by either Jon or Sansa.  
  
“We’ve angered him.” She half whispers, half giggles one afternoon after a run in near the training yard that ended with Petyr storming off towards the rooms the other lords were roomed in.  
  
Jon is similarly trying to hold in a laugh, but fails when he looks at the pure look of glee on her face.  
  
“His face was almost as purple as his robes.” He comments as they head towards the godswood, a quiet place where the only eyes looking on them are that of the gods, of broken Bran who flies all around them.  
  
The godswood is eerily quite as the two make their way back to the white wooded heart tree, Jon’s larger hand wrapped around Sansa’s, leading the way over melting piles of snow.  
  
“Two more days, they leave in two more days, and then things can get back to normal around here.” Sansa murmurs as they settle themselves against the tree, resting her head against Jon’s shoulder as he keeps their joined hands in his lap.  
  
“Aye, and I leave three days after that. I’ve been here too long as it is, I’m surprised Tyrion hasn’t sent a search party yet.”  
  
“I’m sure he’s enjoying being the sole Hand in Kingslanding for now. If I know anything about my ex-husband, it’s that he enjoyed ruling almost as much as he enjoyed wine and women.” Sansa teases, laughing at the face Jon makes when she refers to Tyrion as her ex-husband.  
  
“That was when Joffrey was king. He was a little harder to reign in than Daenerys, or so I’ve been told. Dany on the other hand gets bored when all she has to do is listen to petitions all day, takes off on Drogon for hours at a time. Willas has helped you know, she always has something to do now that she is planning a royal wedding.”  
  
“She will make a lovely bride.” Sansa says truthfully, because she can imagine Queen Daenerys now, in a gown of her house colors, white blonde hair braided like the Dothraki warrior she is.  
  
“That she will. She also mentioned taking Willas on a tour of the Bay of Dragons after the wedding, which means I will have to stay in Kinglanding while they are gone.” He tells her, resting his chin against her head as he says it.  
  
“How long will that take?” She is afraid of the answer because she knows she will not like it.  
  
“She promised me three, maybe four moons, which seems more than fair considering how much time I’m spending here. I would offer you and Rickon to stay with me in the capital, but there-“  
  
“Must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Yes. Thank you for the offer Jon, truly, I never thought I’d like to see the capital again, but how I wish I could say yes to this. Three moons will be too long of a separation.”  
  
They sit in companionable silence after that, Jon pressing kisses to the crown of her head while her eyes get heavy with sleep, the sun hitting the tree in such a delicious way she is warm all over, and she’s certain she could fall asleep like this if she let herself.  
  
Until they hear a tell tale crunch. It causes her blood to run cold, because even without knowing, she knows who would have followed them back here.  
  
“Don’t do anything stupid Jon.” She warns when Petyr finally clears the last line of trees and is directly in their sights.  
  
“Oh what do we have here? Lady Stark and King Jon, alone again.” Petyr calls from across the hot spring, a crazed look in his eyes that Sansa had never seen in him before. He carries a wine skin and a sword that Sansa has never seen on his person in all the years they have known each other.  
  
“Lord Baelish, have you taken to the old gods in your stay in Winterfell?” Jon yells back, attempting to interject humor into an already tense situation, negotiation never being his strong suit.  
  
“Blast your old gods, blast the new as well. The gods never served me well, the only thing that has ever helped me has been gold. Other people’s gold, my gold, the crown’s gold. Gold will get you anything you want, _King Jon,_ even the love of a woman, if only for the night.” A bitter laugh escapes the older mans lips, his eyes never straying off of Sansa.  
  
“I would not know personally my lord, I’ve never had much interest in paying coin for the attention of a woman myself.”  
  
“And why would that be? Is it that you’re fucking that dragon whore aunt of yours? Or that your wolf slut of a cousin is allowing you in her bed? Maybe it’s both, who am I to know?”  
  
Jon is standing before Petyr even finishes his thought, pulling Longclaw free as Sansa jumps to her feet, grabbing his arm as he tries to shake her off.  
  
“Jon. Jon! Listen to me. He’s drunk, don’t you see what he is carrying? Call for a guard, have him taken to his room, or the cells even so he can sleep it off. He is not worth it.” She whispers fiercely into his ear, begging him not to do something rash.  
  
“I knew I would find you here Sansa, with him. I’ve seen the way you look at him, we all have. In my mind I expected to find you here with your thighs spread wide and his bastard mouth on you. This is the man you chose? This bastard who plays at king, who used to be your brother?” The mockingbird yells across the hot spring, throwing his wine skin to the ground and clumsily pulling the sword from his scabbard.  
  
Jon takes off in a mad sprint before Sansa even has half a chance to grab at him again. He will easily out match Petyr, would do so even if the man wasn’t drunk on wine and fueled by anger.  
  
The sound of steel clashing practically roots Sansa to the earth, but the two men start trading verbal jabs that she can no longer hear and it’s enough to make Sansa edge closer. Petyr once told her that words were his greatest weapon, and even as drunk as he might be right now, she knows he can land a verbal hit just as fatal as Jon could cut him with Longclaw.  
  
“Do you even know what I’ve done boy? What I’ve done for her? Do you know who I’ve had killed for getting in my way? Kings die every day, Jon Snow. I’ve killed kings before, I’ve convinced kings to kill for me.”  
  
Quick as a flash, Jon knocks Lord Petyr into the mud, slashing Longclaw along his ribs deep enough that the purple of his robes start to seep red. Sansa runs at them, grabbing Jon’s arm before he is able to strike the killing blow and telling him to stop. The look in Petyr’s eyes is one of shock that quickly changes to rage.  
  
Jon takes aim at Petyr’s throat, pressing the tip of Longclaw in just enough that a small rivulet of blood streams down his neck.  
  
“Of course, you Tully woman always stopping your Stark men from killing me, how would this time be any different. I’m even using the same blade, though Jon here is much better a swordsman than Brandon ever was.”  
  
“I am no Tully Petyr. I have never been my mother, not when I was an easily manipulated child, not now as a woman grown. I am a Stark, and I only ask Jon to spare your life right now in these woods because I want you to admit to all your slights towards my family.” Sansa snarls at him.  
  
“You never figured it out? After all these years, I always thought it was why you ran from me in the Vale sweetling, that you found out my greatest achievement.” Petyr laughs bitterly, voice strangled from where Jon points Longclaw into his neck.  
  
“I know you helped kill Joffrey if that’s what you mean. Tommen was much more easy for the Tyrells to manipulate, Joffrey was a danger to everyone around him because of how unpredictable he was. You told me all these things yourself. I ran from the Vale because you were poisoning Sweetrobin, hoping his death would mean transfer of the Vale to my true identity, and that I would marry you after you killed off Harry. There is no love lost between Harry and I, but I wasn’t letting him become a piece in your game.”  
  
“For such a clever girl, you a still a little idiot.” Petyr sneers, earning himself a kick to the ribs from Jon.  
  
“Before any of that was ever able to come into play, something else had to be done. I needed to make you dependent on me, to make you feel as if I was your only friend in Kingslanding.” He continues after catching his breath.  
  
“You were never my friend in Kingslanding. Sandor Clegane was the only person to show me any real protection before I married Tyrion, and even he was a drunk brute. Even the Tyrells, despite trying to use me for my own gain, stepped in when no one else would. You did nothing for me.”  
  
“You’re missing one very important element here Sansa. Before any of these things happened, before the Tyrells and the Hound and Tyrion, you had a protector, someone to keep me far away from you, far away from the vipers nest you were unprepared to tread on, and I did my very best to see him dead.”  
  
Clarity dawns on her and the pain is so sudden, so fresh and raw that she wants to lash out at him right then and there. She lunges at the little man upon the ground, Jon deftly wrapping an arm around her waist while keeping Petyr in place with Longclaw.  
  
“You had my father killed? You were the one that told Joffrey to kill him?” She screams, tears running down her face, struggling to get out of Jons firm grasp.   
  
“I did what I had to do! Eddard Stark was a fool. I was going to play the hero, sneak you out of Kingslanding and back North to your mother, where she would welcome me with open arms and realize that I am the only man who was ever worthy of her. Until your just as foolish brother decided playing King was a good idea and started a war. Then my attentions turned to you. If I couldn’t have my Cat, I _would_ have her daughter.”  
  
Sansa only sees in red right now, anger clouding her every thought. She was hardly listening to his words, not caring at all how he was attempting to defend his actions. Beside her, Jon was shaking with rage, his arm that was still wrapped around her waist was like a vice and his fingers gripping so tightly in her flesh she was sure to have bruises on the morrow.  
  
“Convincing Joffrey was easy. He wanted to make a show of how strong of a leader he was going to be, and showing mercy to your father would have made him look weak. He may have been just as mad as Aerys before him, but he had no idea it would send the realm into chaos and rebellion. Joffrey was just another piece on the game board, and when he was done being useful I had put him down as well.” His voice drips with venom and there is madness in his eyes.  
  
Jon lets go of where he holds onto Sansa, allowing her to give Petyr a swift kick to the ribs before hauling the man off the ground and grasping both his arms behind his back. Petyr stumbles briefly before Jon forcefully rights him, walking them towards the gates of the godswood.  
  
“As King of the Seven Kingdoms, I sentence you to death by public execution Lord Petyr Baelish, on the charges of regicide and treason.”  
  
\-------  
  
Less than two days after the scene in the godswood, the Lords of the Vale have gathered with their men in the courtyard to witness the beheading of one of their own. None of them attempted to even argue against the accusations made by Jon and Sansa, they all knew the type of man Petyr Baelish was and the things he was capable of. Many of the Lords had been acquaintances of her lord father when he was a young man in the Vale, and had mourned his death all those years ago.  
  
Sansa finds herself standing in the same gown she wore when the Vale riders entered nearly a moon prior, looking every bit an icy Northern lady as she can manage, when in reality her heart has been breaking since yesterday. She had long wondered who it was that convinced Joffrey to defy his regent mother in his first major act as the new king, and for all the awful things Petyr had done to her, having a hand in the death of her father was never one she expected.  
  
Jon enters the yard where they are gathered a little less refined than he would normally be in public, but despite the crown on his head, today he is not the King, but the executioner. He wears leathers reminiscent of his time at the Watch, Longclaw strapped to his hip and Ghost padding silently behind him.  
  
Ser Jaime told her this morning that Petyr has refused all meals since being taken into custody, only drinking water when forced and muttering nonsense to himself continuously. When he is brought forward by her two sworn shields, he looks worn and sickly and prepared to die, kneeling gracefully before the block where Jon will take his head.  
  
“Today we gather here to witness the execution of Lord Petyr Baelish. He has been found guilty of the charges of treason and regicide for the murder of King Joffrey Baratheon. He also admitted to having a hand in the death of Lord Eddard Stark. For these crimes, as King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I sentence him to death by beheading.”  
  
The crowd breaks out into jeers when Jon finishes talking; shouts of “The North Remembers!” spread through the group as boos and curses are called out, Sansa and Rickon standing side by side with their chins raised high while their people rioted behind them.   
  
“Do you have any last words my lord?” Jon asks once the crowd settles down.  
  
“It may have started as a plot to get my dear Cat, but you were a far greater prize than she ever was sweetling. You could have loved me if not for him.” Petyr states, looking directly at Sansa, voice almost pleading.  
  
“I am no prize and I would have never loved you.” Is all she can reply through gritted teeth.  
  
Petyr lays his neck down against the block and is staring into the great beyond when Longclaw slices clean through meat and muscle. Sansa does not look away, not even when his head rolls forward in the dirt of the yard, instead she watches as Petyr’s lifesblood pours out of him.  
  
She catches Jon’s eye when she finally looks away, and he inclines his head up towards the castle as he wipes the blood and flesh off of Longclaw and onto his breeches. He gave his departing wishes to the Vale lords at the morning meal, knowing they were leaving immediately after the execution and that he would be in no proper form to bid them farewell after having to kill a man. They share a knowing nod before Jon departs for the bath Sansa has waiting for him in his room.  
  
\------  
  
Sansa finds him an hour later, fresh tunic and breeches already in place as he is lacing up his boots. She stands at the frame of his door which has been left ajar by the stable hands that came to fetch the bloodied bath water, overwhelmed with gratitude and love for this man that she has grown to care so deeply about in these past few years.  
  
“Sans. I didn’t see you there, please come in.” Jon motions for her to enter when he straightens himself up.  
  
She feels herself blush as she walks into the room, usually they meet in her solar, as is proper, but her feelings of late are anything but proper, so it seems fitting.  
  
“Thank you.” Is all she can manage to say before Jon pulls her to him, wrapping his arms tightly around her smaller frame.  
  
“I promised he would never hurt you again. I would kill him a million times over for the pain he caused you and your family.”  
  
“Your family too Jon. He was a father to you too.” She mumbles against his chest, wishing she had more tears to cry, but instead all she feels is strength flowing through her veins.  
  
“Aye. I’m proud he raised me. Ned Stark was a good man, you should be proud he was your father, but recently I’ve become grateful he wasn’t actually mine.” Jon says, a heavy sigh capping his sentence.  
  
Sansa pulls away, looking up to Jon with questioning eyes.  
  
She sees it before it happens, the look Jon has been giving her for moons now, that she’s blindly mistaken for so many other things she feels a fool.  
  
Jon rests his forehead against hers, his lashes fluttering shut as his nose rubs affectionately against her own. Her heart feels like it is going to explode in her own chest and she can’t help but wonder if he can feel it beating himself, her own eyes shutting on their own accord when his mouth meets first with her cheek and then with her brow.  
  
Silently Jon places soft kisses across Sansa’s face, coming close to her lips but never quite placing his upon her own.  
  
“Tell me this is okay.” He murmurs against the shell of her ear, his hands still firmly on her waist and her’s exploring every inch of his shoulders and arms she can manage.  
  
“Yes, yes, this is okay Jon.” Is all she has to say before he pulls her more firmly against him, one hand coming to tangle in her hair while another cups her cheek.  
  
His lips press against hers urgently, and this is something new to her, kissing someone she loves. She presses her back, trying to match his pace, when she feels his tongue against the seam of her lips and she allows her mouth to fall open to him. The kiss is warm and wet and all she wants is more. Sansa cards her fingers through his damp hair, trying in vain to pull him closer, though there is no more room between them.  
  
She lets out a strangled moan from the back of her throat, and Jon instantly surges forward, arms coming to wrap around her waist as he picks her up from the ground as he kisses her.  
  
After a few minutes, possibly longer, they break apart with big gasping breathes, resting their foreheads together as Jon lowers Sansa back to the ground.  
  
“I should have done that moons ago.” Jon tells her with a groan.  
  
He scowls at her when she giggles.  
  
“I’m glad you waited, this was perfect.” She replies with a chaste kiss.  
  
He practically growls before lifting her in his arms once again and settling into a chair to kiss her senseless.  
  
“What are we going to tell people?” Jon asks sometime later as they sit in front of his fireplace.    
  
“You’re the one that told me to let the smallfolk gossip about their king and his lady cousin, that it doesn’t have to mean anything. So let them gossip for now. This isn’t for the realm Jon, this is for us.”  
  
He nodded his agreement as he pulled her closer, Sansa pillowing her head against his chest. She felt safe and secure; loved and protected; happy and content, something she hadn’t truly felt since her father’s death.  
  
In this moment Sansa realizes something, she’s in love with Jon and nothing could change that.  
  
\---  
  
You can follow me [here](http://www.paperflowercrowns.tumblr.com) on tumblr! I like to fangirl about Jon Snow, cats, and noodles among various things. 


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